43.

A gasoline-laced breeze wafted through the open French doors, carrying with it the discordant blare of honking horns, traffic heavy this time of day in the Marais district. From where he stood, Caedmon could watch the building entryway. An excellent vantage point. Even the commando had acknowledged that the St Merry Hotel was a good choice.

' "To be of no church is dangerous," ' he murmured, letting the drapery fall into place as he stepped into the room. Let us hope this one proves a safe haven.

Shoulders drooping, Kate deposited her rucksack on the Gothic-style desk across from the bed. 'I was thinking more along the lines of "Get me to the church on time". Normally, I'd be bowled over by the fact that we're staying in a restored seventeenth-century presbytery which is next door to an equally old church. But after everything that's happened today, I just can't drum up a whole lot of enthusiasm.' Peering in his direction, she graced him with a weary smile. 'Although I'm greatly relieved to be here. And for that we have you to thank.'

'Flying bullets will make any man quick on his feet.'

'Luckily, you're quicker than most.'

Clearly fatigued, Kate plopped into a high-backed chair. Like everything else in the room, it was fit for a feudal lord, the room's stone-block walls enlivened with oak quatrefoils and tracery cutouts, the centrepiece being a ma.s.sive bed with an intricately carved seven-foot-high headboard. Fit for the feudal lord and his lady love. Despite the fact that Kate had vehemently denied a romantic involvement with McGuire, Caedmon couldn't help but wonder at their sleeping arrangements.

'This wood-beamed ceiling reminds me of your room in Oxford,' Kate remarked, tilting her head to glance upward.

'The hearty souls were housed in the medieval wing of the college; those able to withstand winter chill, summer heat and leaky pipes. Punishment for crimes yet committed,' he deadpanned.

'Faulty plumbing aside, I used to think that there wasn't anything quite as beautiful as when the setting sun tinted your centuries-old window a rich shade of tangerine.' As she spoke, Kate girlishly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 'Such a lovely memory.'

Caedmon seated himself on the opposite side of the desk. Surprised that Kate harboured warm memories of their time at Oxford, he was at a loss for words. Sixteen years had come and gone since they'd last seen one another. A lifetime. And yet he could easily envision her studiously bent over an open book. Claude Levi Strauss's A World on the Wane. Or some other anthropology tome. Committed scholars, they used to spend hours in that medieval room, each engrossed in their separate studies. Each oblivious to the other's presence. Until one of them would look up and catch the other's eye. A come-hither smile later, they'd end up under the duvet. Now that was a lovely memory.

'Do you realize that I wouldn't know how to ride a bicycle if it wasn't for you,' Kate remarked, unaware that his thoughts were running along a more lurid path. 'Since my parents were both academics, they didn't consider riding a bike a necessary life skill.'

'Don't know if it's necessary in the larger scheme of things, but certainly essential at Oxford.' Still stuck under the duvet, he smiled fondly. 'Indeed, you were so enamoured with your newly acquired skill that you would drag me out of bed at an unG.o.dly hour for early morning rides in the mist.'

'You can't deny that there was a surreal beauty to it. As though we were trapped in a medieval dreamscape. Just the two of us peddling through a heavenly realm.' She closed her eyes; a woman lost in reverie.

'I also taught you how to drink sherry.'

Hearing that, her eyes popped wide open. 'Dry, chilled, served in a hand-blown copita gla.s.s, and ' an animated gleam in those greyish-blue eyes, Kate raised an imaginary gla.s.s 'accompanied by your favourite toast '

'Bottoms up and knickers down,' he chimed in, chortling.

No sooner did the shared chuckle fade into silence than a furrow appeared between Kate's brows. 'Were you really that upset by my lettre de rupture?'

Take aback by that unexpected query, he was tempted to play the cavalier. To make light of the whole affair.

'Utterly destroyed,' he confessed at the last, hoping the truth would finally set him free. 'I'd given you my heart.'

'As I recall, you were quite obsessed with the Knights Templar. I was tired of playing second fiddle to a bunch of dead monks.'

His regret real, Caedmon penitently bowed his head and stared at his hands. 'Like most men, I didn't realize what I had until I lost it.'

'And when we lose that thing that we hold so dear, it never comes back.'

Hearing a husky catch in her voice, he intuited that Kate was referring to her own life. Her own painful loss.

Raising his head, he gazed intently at the sad-faced woman seated across from him. He knew from Kate's dossier that life had flung her to the cement pavement. And from a very high rooftop. Her only child, a baby boy named Samuel, had died from SIDS. An unfathomable loss.

'I know about Samuel.'

Eyes welling with emotion, Kate flinched. A terrified animal caught in the headlights. 'Oh, G.o.d,' she moaned.

He reached across the desk and cupped her cheek in his hand. Gently, he swiped the pad of his thumb under her eye socket, catching a runaway tear. 'You probably loathe the "I'm so sorry" speech, but I understand, Kate. There's a gaping hole in your heart. I know ... I, too, lost someone,' he confessed, words and sentiments jumbling together. 'And when Juliana died, it devastated me.'

'Oh, Caedmon ... I ... I'm so very sorry ... there, I said it.' Turning her head, Kate lightly pressed her lips to his palm. She then gazed at him, eyes clouded with concern. 'If you need someone to talk to ... or a shoulder to cry on ... I can help you get through this. Maybe that's why we've re-connected after all these years. Because we need each other.' Clearly empathizing with his pain, she placed her hand over his. 'Was Juliana your wife?'

He dolefully shook his head. 'But I had given great thought to asking '

'Sorry to interrupt the canoodle fest.'

Hearing that deep-throated voice, Caedmon and Kate quickly and gracelessly pulled apart. McGuire, an old-fas.h.i.+oned skeleton key in one hand and two plastic shopping bags dangling from the other, stood in the doorway. 'I bought some refreshments. Not that you two lovebirds would care.' He stomped over to the desk, managing to look more intimidating than usual.

'We were just reminiscing about old times at Oxford,' Kate a.s.sured her surly companion, cheeks guiltily stained a vivid bright red. 'Caedmon, do you remember Sidney Hartwell?'

'Pudgy Cla.s.sics major p.r.o.ne to drunken stupors,' he replied, playing along with the game. 'Liked to wave his trousers in the air while he shouted obscene profanities.'

'In Latin and in the middle of the night, no less.' Never good at subterfuge, Kate nervously giggled.

McGuire dragged a chair over to the desk and set it inches from Kate's Gothic monstrosity. A man staking his claim. He then proceeded to remove a six-pack of beer from one bag and a litre bottle of water from the other. 'Choose your poison Kronenbourg or H2O. And just so you know, I cannot abide a country that doesn't sell cold beer at the grocery store. Here. You look like you could use one of these.' McGuire pulled a can free from the plastic ring and slid it across the desk in Caedmon's direction.

'An Irishman who would refuse a pint of warm Guinness. Well, well, wonders never cease.'

'You'd turn your nose up, too, if you'd ever seen how my Da downed the black stuff. Surprised I'm able to enjoy a brewski.' Shaking his head, McGuire rolled his eyes. 'If only he'd waved his trousers in the air.'

Caedmon wondered at the startling admission. Perhaps the earlier brush with death is causing the three of us to come apart at the seams.

Seams ready to burst, he rapaciously eyed the unopened can. Like McGuire, he didn't much care for warm beer. A G&T on ice would be better. But this might quell the pang.

He reached for the Kronenbourg.

Only to retreat at the last.

Then, not fully trusting himself, he slid the proffered can back in McGuire's direction.

'No, thank you.' Jaw tight, those three simple words sounded unnaturally clipped. Probably because he'd recently come off a three-day binge. A bender, as the Yanks called them. Usually his drinking bouts lasted no more than a few days. Although the first, after the 'incident' in Belfast, extended to a full two weeks. The boys from Thames House found him slumped over a bar in Budapest. According to his pa.s.sport, he'd been to six different countries in those two weeks. To this day, he had no recollection of that drunken fortnight, although it was his lone act of vengeance in Belfast that angered the powers that be at Thames House more than the drunken spree. In the two years since, he'd paid heavily for the transgression. Seconded to MI6, he'd been made to run a safe house in Paris. A humiliating demotion.

'You know, I've been thinking about it ' McGuire popped the lid on his can, misting the air with the tang of Strisselspalt hops and a light citrus aroma 'and no way in h.e.l.l can I accept that the Holy Grail is "the stone in exile". Sister Michael Patrick, a woman whose authority even a smart aleck like me didn't dare question, taught us that the Grail is the chalice that was used at the Last Supper. And when Jesus was on the cross, that same chalice was used to collect his blood. That's how it became the Holy Grail.'

Dissertation delivered, the commando raised the can to his lips and drank deeply.

Astonished that the other man had deliberated on the matter, Caedmon countered by saying, 'Don't know how "holy" it is. According to Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzival, the Lapis Exillis was the stone knocked free from Lucifer's crown when he was cast from heaven. As you undoubtedly know, Lucifer had originally been G.o.d's favourite until he committed the grave sin of putting himself on a par with the Almighty. A heavenly insurrection ensued, the angelic legions battling for supremacy. In the end, Lucifer was tossed on his a.r.s.e.' As he spoke, Caedmon belatedly realized that he shared a common bond with the ousted angel, having taken upon himself the power of life and death. And look where it landed me.

'Given its ignominious provenance, I'm surprised that the Lapis Exillis would be deemed sacred,' Kate said, twisting the lid on the water bottle. 'And Finn raises a valid point: most people believe that the Grail is a chalice.'

Getting up from his chair, Caedmon walked over to the other side of the room and retrieved a water gla.s.s from the bedside table. 'During the Middle Ages, there were three different Grail camps: those who believed the relic was a chalice; those who were convinced that it was a stone; and the peacekeepers who, through a convoluted twisting of both tales, declared that the Grail had been a stone that became a chalice.' Reseating himself, he handed the gla.s.s to Kate. 'Although what's not in dispute is the fact that the Grail, whether it be stone or chalice, has miraculous power. And what is power if not energy?'

'So you're thinking that the Grail has something to do with the Axe Historique and the Vril force,' Kate said, quick to catch his drift.

'Depictions of the Grail often render it shrouded in a brilliant burst of light.' Vexed, Caedmon shook his head. He had a gut feeling that the Lapis Exillis was connected to the Paris axis, but not a shred of evidence to prove it. 'Mind you, this is mere speculation, but it could be that the Grail is some sort of transducer that can convert one type of energy into another.'

'How do the Cathars fit into the Grail story?' Kate poured herself a gla.s.s of water, then, holding the bottle aloft, silently enquired if he cared for some.

'Difficult to say,' Caedmon replied, politely shaking his head, water no subst.i.tute for alcohol. 'The Cathars were dualists who believed that there were two G.o.ds, not one. The G.o.d whom they referred to as Rex Mundi, the king of the world, they a.s.sociated with Lucifer who ruled the material realm. Conversely, the good G.o.d was the Light that illuminated the heavenly sphere. How the Cathars came to be in possession of a uniquely Christian relic is anyone's guess.' He paused, well aware that the conversation was about to veer off course. 'Although it's abundantly clear from the Latin inscription on the Montsegur Medallion that the Cathars were the Grail Guardians.'

'But I always thought that the Cathars were a Christian sect.' Kate's brow furrowed, having jumped to the same erroneous conclusion that most people made.

'While the Cathars thought of themselves as upright Christians, their rituals did not include the traditional Catholic sacraments. And, of course, there was that heretical business about Jesus being a divinely inspired prophet rather than the divine Son of G.o.d.'

One side of McGuire's mouth quirked in a wry half-grin. 'Reason enough for Sister Michael Patrick to pull out a box of Diamond matches and light a pyre.'

'How strange that you should make reference to the Inquisitors' funeral pyre since I'm about to throw caution aside and leap into the fire. After due deliberation ...' Caedmon paused, on the cusp of a decision that could well change his life. 'I've decided to search for the Grail.'

44.

'Jesus H!' Finn's shoulders jack-knifed off the back of the chair. 'You are off your freakin' English rocker if you think you can find the Holy Grail!'

'Thank you for that resounding vote of confidence,' Aisquith deadpanned, unfazed by the criticism.

'Finding the Grail is like putting toothpaste back in the tube. It ain't gonna happen. And didn't you see the movie? Indiana Jones already beat you to it,' Finn taunted, beginning to think the Brit needed to be knocked on the head with a 2 x 4. Drastic? Maybe. But he didn't know what else besides a wood kiss would knock sense into the guy.

'Do you have any idea what these people are capable of?' Folding his arms over his chest, Aisquith patronizingly looked down his nose. Like he was the school master and Finn the cla.s.s dunce.

'They butchered two good buddies of mine, so, yeah, I think I know what I'm up against.' Raising the beer can to his lips, Finn polished it off.

'And before that, they butchered as many as seventeen million innocent people.'

'Caedmon, have you really thought this through?' Kate enquired in concern, having remained silent up to this point. Probably in a state of shock. 'The Seven Research Foundation could easily target you.'

'If memory serves correctly, they already have.' He glanced down at the spot on his chest where he'd almost taken a bullet to the heart. 'Although not to worry. I'm well armed. Fortis est veritas.'

Kate smiled wistfully; the phrase obviously meaning something to her. 'And just as truth is strength, scientia potentia est.'

'Knowledge is power,' Aisquith replied.

'Hey, excuse me. I didn't get to go to Awxford. I got my education at Boot Camp U. So, can we all stick to English?'

'Very well. Here is a fact that requires no translation: the Ahnenerbe was obsessed with finding the Holy Grail. Their descendents seem no less fanatical. While I don't know the foundation's reason for coveting the relic, I'm certain that it pertains to the Axe Historique and the creation of the Vril force.' Doing a fair imitation of a traffic cop, Aisquith held up his right hand. 'And please spare me the stale refrain about flying saucers and n.a.z.i ray guns.'

'Fine,' Finn muttered, having been two seconds shy of throwing a zinger. 'But do you actually expect me to believe that a bunch of n.a.z.i descendants are planning a comeback? There's nothing left of the Third Reich. My great-uncle Seamus and all the other men who kicked n.a.z.i a.s.s sixty some years ago saw to that.' Point made, he reached for another beer.

'And my grandfather, who was a prosecuting attorney at the Nuremberg trials, was appalled that the high-ranking members of the n.a.z.i Party considered themselves avatars, G.o.ds in the making. Indeed, he said on more than one occasion that it was impossible to reason with them. It's naive to think that the evil was completely eradicated at war's end. We must a.s.sume that the Ahnenerbe's sp.a.w.n have been indoctrinated in this dark belief system.'

Finn lifted a disinterested shoulder. 'That was then, this is now.'

'Is it?' For several long seconds Aisquith stared at him, grim-faced. 'Many of the same global crises that gave rise to National Socialism in the 1930s again threaten to cripple world governments. This is a movement that thrives on despair and discontent. Pick up any newspaper; there's plenty of that to go around.'

'As a cultural anthropologist, I can attest to the fact that Western Europe and America are both in the midst of a social upheaval,' Kate remarked, throwing in her lot with Aisquith. 'Xenophobia and religious intolerance are rampant and could easily reach a dangerous tipping point. It's happened before. It could happen again.' Lips slightly quivering, her voice dropped to a husky whisper. 'Although a proud American citizen, my grandfather was forcibly imprisoned in a j.a.panese internment camp.'

Jesus. I had no idea. Finn stared at his beer can, wanting to give comfort, but uncertain how to act on the impulse.

'Lest we forget,' Aisquith said consolingly, reaching across the desk to squeeze Kate's hand. Then, his voice more strident, 'My aim is to destroy the enemy's a.r.s.enal. And, yes, I believe that the Vril force, if harnessed, could be used as a weapon. Had n.a.z.i physicists been successful in their quest to weaponize the Vril, there would have been a far different outcome to the Second World War.'

'Hey, I can't get bogged down by something that didn't happen. If it doesn't relate to my mission op tomorrow at the Grande Arche, I'm not interested.' Beer can in hand, Finn jabbed it in Aisquith's direction. 'And don't get any funny ideas in your head about borrowing the medallion. That sucker is the only bargaining chip I have to get the Dark Angel.'

'A digital photo of the Montsegur Medallion will suffice. If you would be so kind.'

'Whatever.' Unzipping his Go Bag, Finn extracted the medallion and handed it over, figuring it was the quickest way to get rid of the other man.

The Brit wasted no time whipping out his BlackBerry, Kate getting up from her chair to play photographer's a.s.sistant. Annoyed that they kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, Finn stood up and walked over to the French doors, almost stumbling on the bed's footboard en route. The d.a.m.ned thing was enormous and, try as he might, there was no escaping it.

Opening the set of doors, he purposefully turned his back on the king-size mattress with the silky royal blue spread. While women needed a reason to have s.e.x, men just needed a place. A bed. The back of a truck. A concrete floor. Didn't much matter. Although the floor was probably where he'd end up spending the night while Kate, sacked out on that huge mattress, dreamed about the Scarlet Pimpernel.

In a foul mood, Finn scanned the streetscape below, on the look-out for unfriendlies, cops or the Dark Angel, his enemies fast mounting. Aisquith had a.s.sured him that the hotel was secure, but his trust only went so far. Which was the reason why he had the floor plan for all five storeys of the hotel committed to memory and had checked out all of the exits before making his beer run.

Ignoring the murmured conversation taking place behind him, Finn watched as a grey Peugeot taxi sped down Rue de la Verrerie like it was in a Formula One time test. Not seeing anything suspicious, he closed the doors.

Still fuming, he headed back to the desk. Standing side-by-side, Aisquith and Kate were staring intently at the digital photos that they'd just taken of the medallion.

'Do you think the encoded map is contained within the pictorial symbols or the inscription?' Kate asked.

'The clues to the Grail's whereabouts could be embedded in the inscriptions as well as the symbols. A two-p.r.o.ng encryption code.' As he spoke, Aisquith fingered the rim of the medallion. 'Deciphering an esoteric mystery is akin to finding one's way through a Georgian maze. You spend hours aimlessly wandering, hitting one dead-end after another, only to find yourself standing at the very spot where you began.'

'Which begs the question: where are you going to begin the search?'

Not particularly interested in hearing Aisquith's reply, Finn reseated himself at the desk. Forced to take a back seat, he took a swig of warm beer, wondering if there was anything he could do to get Aisquith out of the door other than the time-honoured boot to the a.s.s.

'The legends state that the Cathars smuggled a treasure from their mountaintop citadel at Montsegur several days before the fortress fell to the Pope's army,' Aisquith pontificated in his snooty Awxford accent. 'Making Montsegur the logical place to begin the hunt. That said ... ?'

Finn watched as Aisquith looked expectantly over at Kate. A silent invitation.

One second slipped into the next, Finn's hand tightening around the beer can.

'It's, um, probably best if I stay in Paris.'

Hearing that, the bottom half of him that being the part between his hips was relieved that Kate had rejected the Brit. But the top half the part between his ears was annoyed as h.e.l.l. Kate Bauer was a complication. And a physical distraction. He had three irons in the fire. He didn't need a fourth one scorching his pants.